


Things Fall Apart

by companionsamcarter



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, arthur/gwen/lance love triangle, younger merlin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-14
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-05-06 14:29:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5420588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/companionsamcarter/pseuds/companionsamcarter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthurian Myth/Merlin modern AU: Arthur is a televangelist/mega-church pastor.  Based on Tennyson's poem "Guinevere," but with a Merthur addition bc I'm shipper trash :))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things Fall Apart

It was five o’clock and pitch black outside, echoing Gwen’s state of mind as she threw some essentials into a duffel bag, shrugged her coat over her shoulders and fled her house. She considered taking the car, but decided they’d be able to trace her too easily, and opted to walk to the homeless shelter instead. As her boots crunched on the layer of salt and snow on the sidewalk, the rest of the world silent except for distant truck engines, she tucked her chin into her Dior scarf and tried to keep herself from crying.  
It was all the neighbor boy’s fault, really. She knew she shouldn’t blame the kid, but if he had just minded his own business it wouldn’t have all fallen apart. Miserable little tyke, only ten or eleven, always wore black and insisted upon the name Dred. Technically he was a temporary fixture in the neighborhood, the foster son of her neighbors to the south, but since they were apparently the only people patient enough to deal with the little fucker, he seemed to be there to stay. She tried to be understanding, but he was so infamous that complaining about him over fences or at coffee had become the default neighborhood pastime.  
He seemed to especially dislike Lance, her husband’s assistant-pastor, friend and occasional gardener. He’d always be sneaking around while Lance was in the yard, throwing clods of dirt and pinecones at him over the fence and, once, planting a dead bird in the yard just to see how Lance would react. He wasn’t right in the head, and they should have been more careful around him. Gwen knew that, but she still hated him.  
She and Lance had been following their usual Saturday routine that morning, once Art had gone into work at the church. They’d been out in the garden, sipping coffee and savoring the cold December morning, which, she supposed, had been when Dred had caught wind of their activities. Blissfully ignorant, the two of them had finished their coffee, washed and dried the mugs, and headed upstairs to the bedroom. Gwen’s blouse hadn’t even hit the floor when they’d both heard something big rustling the branches right outside her window. What with the time of day and the natural screen provided by the tree, they never closed the curtains, and Gwen felt her heart leap out of her chest as she saw Dred’s mischievous face and the disposable camera in his hand and realized that he’d seen it all—or at least enough.  
Lance had reacted immediately, storming to the window and throwing it open. He grabbed for the boy, but Dred had seen him coming, and was already halfway down the tree. No amount of swearing on Lance’s part could persuade him to come back.  
Gwen had fallen back on the bed, feeling like a china vase dropped from a piano. She heard herself laughing hysterically, breathily, and she didn’t stop until Lance knelt in front of her and clasped her hands together. She focused on him, her gaze absurdly landing on his heavily muscled shoulders and the chiseled jaw that had drawn her to him immediately, even before she had gotten to know him and become convinced that he could work miracles.  
“Gwen, you need to get out of here,” he was saying.  
She shook her head. “Dred wouldn’t dare.”  
“Yes, he would. You know that. He hates both of us, me especially, and he knows it would ruin us.”  
“We still have a few hours. Stay with me,” she’d whispered, and he lay down on the bed behind her, one arm curled around her, holding her together. They lay there for hours, Lance resolutely silent, Gwen alternately crying and drifting off into something like sleep. She’d seen this moment in her dreams, albeit indirectly. During the long nights spent beside her husband in their king bed, she’d toss and turn in her cold sheets and feel a vague spiritual fear, like the sound of old creaking doors in a haunted house, which no amount of prayers could remove. When she could sleep she’d often dream in abstract, visions of cliffs opening before her, a darkness consuming all that she knew. She’d wake in a cold sweat, and sometimes Art’s hand would be there on her arm, his sleep-laden voice a soothing rumble. But often he’d be blissfully unaware, and she’d watch his chest moving steadily for a few minutes before finally arising in the darkness to get dressed.  
At two o’clock, when the sun began to slant into her eyes, she rolled over and kissed him tentatively. “You have to go,” she whispered.  
“No, I couldn’t leave you. When he comes home, we’ll deal with it together.”  
She sighed and sat up, buttoning her blouse before standing, running her fingers through her hair, and padding downstairs. He followed her silently to the kitchen, where she made them both coffee in silence. They stayed there, not speaking, for almost half an hour before there was a rap at the sliding door which made both of them jump. It was Dred, leering at them with his face pressed against the glass.  
“Don’t,” she said, putting a hand on Lance’s shoulder, but he stormed over to the door, yanked it open and grabbed Dred by his black hood before he could run again. “C’mere, you little punk,” Lance growled, dragging him into the kitchen. “Why don’t you tell us just what you saw this morning, and why the hell you were spying?”  
“I saw enough,” the boy said with a smirk. “And I was spying on you cuz I knew what I’d see. Everyone knows. Everyone talks about it too. But I’ll have the proof, and I’ll tell everyone about it ’til they can’t ignore it anymore.”  
Lance’s eyes looked like they were about to pop out of his head. “Everyone knows?”  
Dred laughed again. “Duh! Maybe they don’t know she’s fucking you, Lance, but everyone says that the pastor’s wife is a slut.”  
With a roar of rage, Lance darted toward Dred, and before Gwen could stop him there was blood on his knuckles and a matching flood from Dred’s nose.  
Dred picked himself up off the floor and ran from the house, screaming, dripping blood into his footprints across the snowy lawn. Lance reeled back and collapsed into a kitchen chair, staring at the stains on his hands and the white tile floor.  
“You have to go,” she whispered again, and this time he nodded.  
“Go home. Lock all your doors. Don’t tell the police anything.”  
He nodded again, still shell-shocked. She helped him stand and put on his coat, then walked him out to the driveway and watched as he drove away, without even a wave in her direction. Keeping an eye on the clock, she’d mopped up the blood and drew the curtains across the sliding door. Then she’d gone upstairs to pack.  
And now here she was, at the door to the largest homeless shelter in the state. Looking up at the bland concrete building, she found it so much more intimidating than one time she’d come here with Art, to make a donation on behalf of the church. She was betting on the staff being too frazzled and inundated to recognize her, and she was right; the exhausted desk clerk pointed her toward a cot and told her where she could get dinner if she wanted. Gwen thanked him and made her way toward the bed, which was against a wall in a huge warehouse room of other bedframes, most of them full. Some people looked at her as she entered but most ignored her, probably used to women on their own. She sat down on the bed and almost immediately slumped down onto the nearly-flat pillow, the blanket scratchy on her palm. The whole place smelled like BO thinly veiled by cheap air freshener, but she fell asleep almost immediately.  
When she woke, the room was considerably emptier. She checked her phone and saw that it was nearly six, the time appointed for dinner, but she wasn’t hungry. She sat up—and spotted a movement out of the corner of her eye. A little girl, no older than seven, was sneaking her way toward Gwen, hiding behind the bedframes as she went. Gwen allowed her to continue her spy act until she was a row away, and then made eye contact.  
“Hello. What’s your name?” she asked the girl, who gave a little gasp, but then grinned.  
“I’m Tasha,” she said. “What’s your name?”  
“I’m Morgan,” Gwen lied.  
“Why are you here? Did a mean hotel man kick you out too?”  
“Oh, I just needed to get out of the house,” Gwen said, and then winced at her trivial answer. Tasha didn’t seem to mind, though.  
“Tasha,” she asked after a moment, “do you know any lullabies? Nice, long ones?”  
“Why, do you need to go back to sleep?”  
“Yes,” Gwen whispered.  
“Well take your shoes off first, silly! And get under the blankets. There you go.” The little girl tucked her in and then began to sing, a surprisingly lengthy ballad. While the child perched on the end of the bed, Gwen let herself cry silently, the tears soaking into the cheap fabric of the pillowcase. She heaved with silent sobs, but Tasha just kept singing. Gwen could feel her stomach untwisting with each spasm of her shoulders, and when Tasha finally fell silent she felt oddly relaxed. She heard the springs squeak as the little girl got off the bed and tip-toed back to her own bunk. By now the rest of the shelter’s denizens should have returned from dinner, but the room was oddly quiet. Gwen lay there for a while without falling asleep, listening to the homeless people as they trickled back into the warehouse. In the snatches of their conversation she heard something about the news…Lance DeLuca…SWAT…child abuse…  
She sat up abruptly, startling a passing woman. “What was on the news?”  
“Oh, it’s Lance DeLuca—the assistant-pastor of that huge mega-church, ya know? The one that’s on TV, too? Yeah, there’s a SWAT team at his house ’cause word has it that he broke a kid’s nose.”  
She swallowed her exclamation. “He doesn’t seem like a person who would do that.”  
“Yeah, well. They never do,” the woman muttered, and walked away.  
Gwen pulled her phone out of her pocket—still no new messages; had no one noticed she was gone?—and texted Lance.  
Are you all right? Heard SWAT is there???  
She stared at the screen for a few seconds, then tossed it to the other side of the bed, only to lunge for it two seconds later when it vibrated. It wasn’t Lance, but Art—finally.  
Just got home. Where are you?  
She weighed the phone in her hand. She’d known this moment would come, but she hadn’t prepared for it. Should she tell him she was all right? He must be freaking out about what was going on with Lance—but what if he didn’t know yet? She didn’t text back.  
Next, he called her. She stared at her screen, a photograph she’d taken on a recent vacation to Florida. It was too close to his face and almost out of focus, but she loved it because the setting sun behind him had given him a crown of light, and he was beaming. The people around her spared the buzzing phone a moment’s glance, but otherwise didn’t pay any attention to the obviously distraught woman who was holding it. “Better to just block his number, honey,” called a haggard female voice from two rows over.  
After what seemed like forever, the phone stopped vibrating and his picture disappeared, only to be replaced a few seconds later with a notification of a voicemail. She swiped the screen and held the phone up to her ear.  
“Hi honey! Just wondering where you are, since your car is in the driveway. I guess you’re at one of the neighbor’s houses? Anyway, call me back when you get this; I’m hungry and I’m about to just whip up some mac n cheese.”  
She hung up and stared off into space, imagining Art, who hadn’t had to make a meal for himself for years, standing in the kitchen staring intently at a bright yellow Kraft box. She closed her eyes and pictured him studiously measuring out all the ingredients, putting water in the pasta, crossing to the other counter and turning on the kitchen TV, which was already set to—  
Her eyes flew open. It was set to the news. He’d see Lance’s house on the news. He’d—  
Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz. Buzz-buzz. Several texts, one after another; she watched his disbelief on her screen. He was, she realized, texting the group message between the two of them and Lance, the one they used for planning church events and barbeques. He was firing questions at both of them, but nobody was answering. She watched him become more and more desperate, until her phone rang again. No voicemail this time; just an angry text only seconds later: WHY THE HELL WON’T EITHER OF YOU PICK UP?  
He eventually reached the logical conclusion that they were together at Lance’s house. She knew that he was dying to drive over and save the day. He always had to run right into any house on fire, any desperate situation, especially when it was his own life. He’d be there in ten minutes, max.  
It was time to watch the news. She found her way to the tiny TV room in the shelter and flipped to the channel she liked best. Sure enough, she was confronted with a shaky overhead shot of Lance’s house, with two SWAT trucks outside and a swarm of police officers. All this for one man?  
She appeared to have caught the tail end of the confrontation, though, because the camera zoomed in on a fuzzy image of two police officers leading a handcuffed Lance from his front door to the squad car.  
The perspective changed suddenly. A reporter’s microphone picked up a shout: “WHERE’S MY WIFE, ASSHOLE?”  
Gwen’s breath caught in her throat. She watched, voiceless, as her husband continued to yell, pushing his way through two semi-reluctant, semi-starstruck cops in order to face Lance. There was a ringing in her ears and she couldn’t make out what he was saying, but from the way everyone else was reacting, it was bad. Lance’s comments weren’t even registering on the microphone, but she could see him mouthing apologies. After about ten seconds of this, the cops regained their senses and pulled her husband away from Lance. The camera turned away from Lance being guided into the back of a cop car, and focused on Art instead. Onscreen she watched him put his phone up to his ear, and in her pocket hers started buzzing again. It took all her willpower not to answer as, on-screen, his face contorted in frustration and then rage. With a growl, he pounded the hang-up button and threw the phone into the passenger’s seat, where it bounced high enough for the camera to see it above the dashboard. He slumped his forehead onto the steering wheel and didn’t move.  
The camera cut to the interior of the studio, where the pretty brunette anchor blinked and woodenly reported that there’s be more on this story as it unfolded, at ten o’clock.  
Two older women bustled into the room and changed the channel. Gwen got up and returned to her bunk. For another half hour the texts and calls from Art continued to roll in, in cycles of infuriation and varying intensities of passive-aggressiveness. He reported that he had to go to the police station and answer questions. Then there was a long silence, and at 9:45 he wrote, if you can see this, watch the news.  
By now, the lights in the warehouse had been dimmed, and it was harder to pick her way through the rows of bunks and belongings. She found the TV room again, though. The two old ladies were still in it, and they looked up at her as she entered.  
“We’re about to watch the news about that pastor man,” one of them said. “Are you here to watch that too?”  
She nodded, and sat down as they changed the channel. Four other people filed in right after her, asking if they were going to watch the news. The room was becoming cramped, and Gwen was concerned that people would recognize her, because her picture was definitely going to be up on that screen in a few minutes.  
As it turned out, it was actually a matter of seconds. “It’s been a rough night for the Stone Springs church,” the anchor began, much more polished than a couple hours ago. “Lance DeLuca, the assistant pastor, was arrested in a SWAT standoff a few hours ago on charges of child abuse. DeLuca is accused of breaking a child’s nose. The crime scene: the house of Pastor Art Pender, also of Stone Springs church. We go now to Michael Kay, who’s live at Pender’s home.”  
“Good evening, Michelle. When police came to Art Pender’s home immediately following his confrontation with Lance DeLuca, they discovered blood in the backyard, presumably belonging to the child whom DeLuca allegedly struck, a boy who lives in the neighborhood. The child is currently at Mercy Hospital and not in any danger. But the story doesn’t end there: Channel 4 Action News has learned that Pender’s wife has been missing since mid-afternoon, and statements from Pender during his confrontation with DeLuca may shed some light on the reason why.”  
A prerecorded segment began to play, voiced by the same reporter. “Art Pender and his wife Gwen have always been beloved by the congregation at Stone Springs church, both in person and around the world.” There was a compilation of sound bites from various locals relating how much they loved Stone Springs, its community and its pastor.  
“Pastor Pender brought me back from a very dark place in my life,” said one. “I just turned on the TV one day and there he was, telling me that I could have a better life if only I welcomed Jesus into my heart and confessed all my sinfulness. I actually moved here so I could see him in person, and I haven’t regretted it.” Another, an older white lady who Gwen vaguely remembered saying hello to at a couple gatherings: “I always thought they were a great couple, Art and Gwen. It can’t be easy having a husband who’s on the TV all the time.”  
“But now it appears that all may not be what it seems,” continued the reporter. “During assistant pastor Lance DeLuca’s arrest today on suspicion of child abuse, Pender confronted him, asking DeLuca where his wife was and ‘how could you [expletive] my wife?’”  
So that’s what he’d been yelling. Lovely.  
“Anonymous sources have reported that DeLuca was having an affair with Pender’s wife for quite some time, and that her location is currently unknown.”  
A murmur swept through the room, and Gwen felt a brief moment of perverse happiness. It was hard to gauge, though, if the general sentiment was worry about her whereabouts or disapproval of her activities. Her question was somewhat answered when someone asked aloud, “How could she sleep with the other pastor, of all people?”  
“The exact details of the affair, Mrs. Pender’s disappearance, and circumstances of the charges leveled against Mr. DeLuca are still unclear, but one thing is for sure: Stone Springs church will never be the same again.” The camera lingered on a stock shot of the outside of the huge building. “For Channel 4 Action News, I’m Michael Kay.”  
Gwen leaned back in her uncomfortable folding chair. Somehow she thought it’d be longer; a full-length exposé on her exploits, perhaps. The details hadn’t gotten out yet, but they would soon. Her husband’s show had a significant national following, and soon this would be national news. The 20/20 interview was only a matter of time.  
Most of the people in the TV room stayed to watch the rest of the news, but Gwen stood and returned to her bunk. A small group of people was sitting around the bunk across the aisle from her. One of them, an old bearded man, asked if she minded. She didn’t want to rock the boat, so she said no, and sat on her cot with her knees curled up to her chest. She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but it was impossible not to, especially when her name was coming up every two seconds.  
“I always knew that Gwen woman was no good,” one of the old women said, and Gwen fought the urge to groan. “The way she’d never come out on stage with him at the end, just stand at the side and clap. She never had time for us at the reception, either, usually just left. And all the goo-goo eyes at Pastor Lance over the years, don’t get me started! Should’ve seen it earlier, but she fooled us all with her pious wife act.”  
“Let’s not absolve Pastor Lance of all the blame, here,” one of the younger women cut in. “He knew exactly what he was doing, and that’s cheating on the church, eh? It’s a betrayal of all we stand for.”  
The rest of the group nodded noncommittally. “I remember the very first days of the church,” the old man, who Gwen now recognized as church regular named Marvin, mused. “Meeting in the high school gym, sometimes sitting on the floor, getting into a circle to pray. Those were the days, you know, the purest form of the church in my opinion. We didn’t have no beautiful buildings or stained glass windows or any other fancy hoo-ha. We just had four walls, a keyboard and each other, you know? And Art made that more than enough. He illuminated the Word, he made the Gospels feel like they were happening today. He made us all feel like we were his right-hand men. And we were, because the congregation was so small. We’d talk about real life at church, you know, not like anyone does nowadays. We’d have sermons but we’d also have discussions about whatever was bothering us. A lot of us were young bucks, you know, but most of us eventually followed God’s plan, found a girl we really liked and got married. Art made us better people. But then he started to get noticed, all right, started to get a real big following. And soon there were too many people to actually be able to talk to each other, and there was more lecturin’ and less conversin’. And that was about the same time he met Gwen, so I mean who knows which followed which, but that’s about the time the church started to go downhill, too. That’s my opinion, at least.”  
They continued to gossip, but the old man’s comment strangely made her feel a bit better. She’d helped Art build this mega-church; maybe the church itself was more at fault than she was. When she and Art met, he’d had a following, but no chapel of his own. They’d bought the property and raised the money, then negotiated the contract with the TV channel and grown their business to the near-empire it was today. Art was shrewd; that was part of the reason she’d married him. And whereas marrying Art had just made sense, she remembered the first time she’d seen Lance, when he came to dinner at their house during the interviewing and hiring process. When she opened the door and saw his face everything had kind of gone into slow motion, cheesy as it sounded, had taken his coat and then turned back to Art, finding the coldness she was dimly aware of suddenly more pronounced in comparison to his automatic warmth. She liked that Art was calculating and logical, but he was also cold, not like him, not like my Lance…  
Her eyes flew open as she heard his voice, wafting through the half-open door to the lobby. Art. She hadn’t caught what he’d said to the receptionist, but presumably he’d told some fib about wanting to comfort one of his parishioners.  
She lay down and curled up facing the wall, hoping he’d miss her. She listened to the heavy clicking of his snow boots as he walked up the aisle, straight to her, and stopped.  
“Hey, Pastor Art! We were just talking about ya. In a good way,” Marvin added. “We’re real sorry about everything that’s happened, and we’re prayin’ for ya.”  
“Thank you, Marvin.” Art sounded more tired than ever before, even the early days of the TV show when he was sleeping four hours a night at most. At least then the work had been rewarding; he’d been pulling everything together with his bare hands. Now…  
“Are you doin’ all right, Art? Do you wanna talk about it?” Marvin asked, not getting the hint.  
“Thanks for the offer. I really appreciate it. But right now, there’s someone here who needs me even more than I need you. Could we have some privacy, if you don’t mind?”  
“Of course. But…not that it’s my business, mind, but you might wanna take tonight off, Art. Take care of yourself, y’know?”  
“I am but an instrument of God, my friend, and God sleeps for no incident.”  
“Gwen,” he muttered, when they’d gone. “I know you’re not asleep, but I don’t really want to look at you either, so that’s fine with me.”  
She drew her sweatshirt a little tighter around her and said nothing.  
“You look so pathetic, lying there.” He sighed. “Gwen, it’s a good thing we don’t have babies, ’cause I don’t want any kids who share your cheating, lying genes. My entire world is falling apart, because of you. Dammit, Gwen, didn’t you understand the stakes? You didn’t just screw up my life, you’ve royally screwed up the church. We could lose the following, the show, even the building. Already the people who’d like to see us go down in flames are beating at my door. And don’t even get me started on Lance. By my side, doing the Lord’s work, or so I thought. We’ve been through hell, he and I. I’ve known him even longer than you. We were pals in divinity school. We fought tooth and nail to get where we are today, to build this empire. But at least he had the decency to tell me, eventually. Did you know his one phone call when he got arrested was to me? He explained everything. The affair, the whole thing with Dred. He didn’t know you’d run off, though. I had to google how to track your damn phone, but here I am, Gwen.”  
He paused, as if expecting her to turn over and say something. When she did not, he went on, with even more anger in his voice. “You really messed up my life, you know that, Gwen? You really fucked up my life. Do you even know the level to which you have fucked me over? I brought this community together. Before I was here, crime was at an all-time high. Alcoholism too. The automotive plant had just gone out of business and people were real depressed. When I graduated from divinity school, do you know what I was told? “Go to the place where God needs you most.” A lot of people took that to mean missions in other countries, piss-poor villages in South America or Africa or whatever. Not me. I came here, and I started small, and I forged community, and I never forgot people like Marvin, never let them down, and I united this town. I united a bunch of the churches, too, and it wasn’t just running them out of business, though I could’ve done that if I’d wanted. No, they voted to join us. You’ve been with me as we’ve built this particular church, but the work started long before that, Gwen, and now in one day you’ve probably ruined it all. I upheld Christ’s message, of peace, and love, and I lived it, before you came along. I encouraged my core congregation to be Godly men, repentant and virtuous. But most of all I told them to keep themselves pure until they found their wife, to be only with her for the rest of their days. That last one was the hardest, but it was the most important thing I knew, Gwen. Because it didn’t only repress their baser instincts but sharpened their intellect. They became nicer, and more honest, and more motivated, and everything which makes a man fit to be a functioning member of society—I turned their lives around, Gwen, and I kept turning lives around, bit by gritty bit, until I met you, and suddenly everything else shrunk in importance because I’d found my one person, to have and to hold, till death do us part. Everything was coming together. But then came that ratings drop, and then those protestors, and then your affair with Lance, and just on top of everything else that’s happened this year, it’s just…I don’t know how to go on anymore, Gwen. I mean, how could we go on? What would we do, go back to our old life? Going through the motions, managing whatever shell of the church we had left? You, ghosting through the upstairs hallways, cold feet in my bed? Me, always locking the door to the bathroom, making my own cold lunches, reaching for you in the night and then pulling my hand back when I remember? Because it will take a second to remember, Gwen; don’t go thinking that I don’t love you anymore, or that I’ll stop loving you when you leave. But I can’t stay with you, you know that. I can’t help you work through your shame. What would I look like if I stayed with you? You know I can’t stand those piss-ant husbands who stay with their ball-busting wives after a scandal, even when it’s her fault! No, it would be far better to spend my life alone in our huge house, going through the world alone, than to take you back and be the laughing stock of the entire world. Be sure, that will not happen. You and I are through, Gwen.”  
He paused, and there was a shuffle and a depression as he sat down on the end of her bed. A baby cried on the other side of the cavernous room. She heard a siren whine past outside, and wondered if they were looking for her.  
When he spoke again, his voice was gentler, but still pained. “But I didn’t come to curse you out, Gwen. In fact, it breaks my heart to see you lying there. Your hair is all sprawled out on the pillow and I want to run my fingers through it, like I used to. I want to see it glint in the sun. I was so scared when you disappeared, and then I was so angry when I found out why. But I’m not so furious any more, though God knows I probably should be. What’s past is past, Gwen, my heartbreak, your sin—I can still feel it in my chest, but it’s not acute anymore. Our God is a forgiving God, and I forgive you, just as he does. I forgive you,” he repeated, his voice breaking, “and it’s up to you to make your own peace with Him. I know I should leave now, but how do I say goodbye forever to my only love? I cannot touch you; your body reeks of sin. I must repeat to myself endlessly that you never were mine, you were always his. But no matter how much I try to separate myself from you, try to make my body itself loathe you, I can’t; I’ve never been with anyone but you, Gwen, and I equate the act of love with your exact body and sounds and habits. I can leave now, but it’ll show on my face: I still love you. Everyone will know that I still love you.”  
He growled into the palms of his hands, as she’d seen him do for years whenever he got truly frustrated. His voice had never risen above a mutter, but it was so impassioned that she felt sure that they had an audience, listening from the bunks around them.  
“Maybe, in whatever comes after this world…maybe, if you get yourself settled with God, Gwen…maybe we’ll find each other, and you will want to be with me, your rightful husband. Not Lance, not anybody else but me. It might be naive, but I hold on to that hope. But now I really do have to go; it’s almost midnight and I’m giving a press conference tomorrow instead of a sermon. And of course I have no idea what I’m going to say. I’m dead tomorrow, Gwen. The dream is dead, and you killed it. But I’m the one who chose you. So maybe I killed it too.”  
He stood, but didn’t walk away for another moment; she sensed his hand passing over her head like he was bestowing a blessing. Then he executed an almost military pivot and walked quickly away, his footsteps echoing in the nearly silent room.  
When his steps had faded away, Gwen sat up, dangling her legs off the edge of the bed. Suddenly she was gripped with the desire to see him one last time. She stood up and ran down the aisle. She reached the door of the lobby just in time to see the door swing closed behind him, and the back of his head as he hunched into his jacket and walked away.  
“Can I help you, ma’am?” the receptionist asked. Gwen shook her head and went back to her bunk, blinking as she returned to the darkness.  
She lay on her back in her cot, her feet on the still-warm spot her husband had just occupied, staring up at the ceiling far above, wondering why she hadn’t even said good-bye. She would never see him again in person, she knew that. If she didn’t go to prison for being an accessory to child abuse, she’d move away. She might see him on the street or in court, but they’d never interact, even to settle financial matters. Art would rather cut her off completely. He had more than enough money to pay for lawyers. Hell, he’d probably pay for her lawyer, as it was the Christian thing to do. But he’d never talk to her again. One day, a few months after moving away and starting a new life, she’d flip to a channel where he stood, all alone, no assistant pastor or wife. Because he wouldn’t want either now. He’d want to go back to his roots, to doing it all himself. He’d run himself into the ground, and it was all her fault. She cringed at the image of herself in a waitress’s uniform watching him preach about forgiveness on a diner TV, and compared it to the sweet nothingness of death, but threw away the latter option. No matter how low she sank, suicide just wasn’t in her programming. She’d known that for a long time. She was too selfish for purposeful self-destruction, though she’d done a pretty good job of it unintentionally. Images of Art and Lance superimposed themselves on the inside of her eyelids, and Lance, the child-punching, arrest-resisting home-wrecker, began to pale in comparison to Art, the hard-working preacher who was going to keep on trucking even when the two people he loved most had betrayed him. She cursed her heart for being four years too late, for falling back in love with her husband only in the depths of her darkest hour.  
She was startled out of her misery by a rustling under her bed. Her first thought was of course a rodent of some sort, and she leapt up and away from the bed. But the form that slid out from under the bed was far bigger than any rodent.  
“Hey, Gwen,” Tasha said sheepishly.  
“Were you…under there the whole time?” Gwen asked.  
“Yeah. I didn’t hear all of it, though. I kind of fell asleep, honestly.”  
“But you know who I am, and what I’ve done.”  
“Yeah.”  
Adrenaline gone, Gwen sat back down on the bed and patted the mattress beside her. Tasha scrambled up and sat next to her.  
“Do you think I’m forgiven?” Gwen whispered, not knowing if she was asking about Art or God or the little girl herself.  
“Well, he said he forgave you. That’s what my mom always says to me, and I believe her.”  
“And he loves me. He still loves me, even after I…did that bad thing. Did you hear that part?”  
“Yeah. I don’t really get why, though. No offense.”  
“None taken. I don’t get it either. But sometimes, love…you can’t explain it sometimes.”  
“So…are you getting back together?”  
“No. That much is clear.”  
“But why not? He loves you. And I think you love him.”  
“It should be that simple. But it really, really isn’t. I did something really, really bad, and I can’t make it up to him. At least not in this lifetime.”  
“But in heaven?” she asked, wiggling around a little like the idea excited her.  
“Yeah. Maybe in heaven.”  
They sat there in silence for a moment.  
“Where’s your mom, Tasha?” Gwen asked eventually. “Isn’t she worried about you?”  
“Nah. She mostly just lies on her bed, and comes to meals when I drag her. She’s over there, though.” She pointed into the darkness.  
“Can you introduce us in the morning? I’d like to meet her.”  
“Sure!” Tasha slipped off the bed. “Goodnight, Gwen!”  
She slipped off her shoes and lay down on the cheap sheets, saying a silent good-bye to her old life. From here on out, she was on her own.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~optional Merthur add-on~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The cameras merged into one huge flash as Art walked out onto the stage, his best innocent-preacher smile plastered to his face. He gave his statement—the rumors of the affair are true, but Gwen had nothing to do with Lance’s punching that insufferable kid; of course the church condemned such activities and Lance was fired immediately; please respect his and Gwen’s working things out, aka tying up legal loose ends with as little human contact as humanly possible. Then the questions: Did he know where Gwen was? Yes, she wasn’t missing, just trying to stay private. He could see some who didn’t believe him, but the police did, so that didn’t matter. Did he plan to divorce her? No comment. But yes. Would the show continue? Who the fuck knew? He answered yes. One last question, from the Enquirer guy, this should be entertaining—  
“Mr. Pender, is it true that you once had your own affair—with a younger man?”  
Art felt like he’d been hit by a truck. His mind’s eye was immediately slammed back, to that night five years ago, ministering out in the snow on a Christmas eve, inviting some homeless to stay the night in the church. He’d just passed a bar known for catering to gay men when he heard someone slur his name, and turned around.  
It was a boy—no, a man, definitely a man—who he recognized from the first few years of the congregation here, when Art had been just out of divinity school, hardly a man himself. And here he was, the night before Christmas, getting trashed at a gay bar. Here was someone who really needed him tonight. Art reached for his name.  
“Lin. It’s good to see you.”  
“Pastor Art! What’re you doing here, man?”  
“I always go out on Christmas eve, offering shelter to those who have none. Do you have a place to go tonight, Lin?”  
“Yeah…well…no, honestly. There’s a place, but it’s shit, and I don’t want to go back there. Sorry for saying shit. Shit, I said it again. I mean…”  
“It’s all right, son,” Art said, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder, more to steady him than to comfort. “Normally I’d offer you a spot on the floor of the church, but since I know you, why don’t you come back to my house? You can crash on the couch, and leave in the morning or stay for breakfast and presents, whatever you want. How does that sound?”  
“Yeah, sounds real good, Pastor Art. Thanks, man.”  
“Of course. It’s Christmas, you know.”  
“Wow, so cheesy.”  
“Well, occupational hazard, I’m afraid,” he replied, bundling the half-limp Lin into the passenger seat of his truck.  
“I’m real sorry I stopped coming to church,” Lin slurred as they pulled out onto the street and headed for home. “My life just kinda…” he made a waving motion with his hand, which could have meant anything but didn’t really matter.  
“I’m sorry to hear that, Lin. But God understands. Would you like to talk about it?”  
“Not really.” A short pause. “It’s just…I shouldn’t tell you all this, but…my family doesn’t really accept me for what I am, and it’s like I have this big secret that I can’t tell anyone, and it’s made me not want to go to school or church or anything where I’ll see people I know. I’ve just kind of…dropped out, of everything. An’ I hate that, but it’s kind of a survival technique, too. I just gotta do what I gotta do, man.”  
“I know. It’s a shame that the world has made you feel like that, Lin. But you know that God loves you no matter what, right?”  
He giggled, and then hiccupped. “Yeah. That’s what you tell me every Sunday on TV, Pastor Art. I still watch you. I kinda miss actually talking to you, though. This is nice.”  
“Yes, it is.”  
They drove the rest of the way home in silence, except for Lin drunkenly singing along to the radio and then constantly apologizing for his bad singing until Art said it wasn’t that bad. Reminding him to be quiet, Art led him into his house, flicked on some lights, smiled at the cookies Gwen had left out for him. He led Lin to the kitchen and made him drink glass after glass of water until he was marginally more lucid. The man got sadder as he sobered, which depressed Art. Still, he tried to talk about cheerful things, hopeful things, and by the time he tucked Lin in on the couch, he hoped he felt a little better. He went upstairs and slipped into bed, but couldn’t sleep. After dozing fitfully for several hours, he abruptly remembered that he hadn’t actually put his presents for the boys under the tree, and snuck back downstairs. Lin was still asleep, but he’d thrown the blanket off. Art knelt and readjusted the afghan, then impulsively planted a kiss on Lin’s forehead. When he drew back, however, Lin’s eyes were open, a sleepy smile on his lips.  
Art froze, his face inches from the young man’s. He started to pull away, but Lin grabbed his shoulder with surprising agility for a freshly awakened drunkard and kept him close. A dam broke somewhere inside Art, and suddenly he could acknowledge the attraction he’d always felt for Lin, forbidden even before he’d been married. He felt his expression soften, but still he could not move. Lin seemed to understand, and strained his neck to bring his face towards Art’s….  
“Art?” Gwen was calling his name from upstairs, her voice chapped with sleep. Art jerked back and mumbled an apology, then turned and fled upstairs. But by the time he’d explained their unexpected houseguest to Gwen and walked back downstairs, the couch was empty, the blanket neatly folded and a note, written on a napkin, which said simply “thanks.”  
Coming back to the present, Art blinked probably many more times than was necessary, looked up at the reporter, and said quietly, but into the microphone, “No. That is absolutely not true.”


End file.
